by Dave Duncan
“Innocent?”
So they played. He was humoring her, not wanting to burst her bubble of happiness. She did not seem to realize that Baron Roland had painted the joys of ocean travel in all the wrong colors and a voyage to the Hence Lands would be a long and perilous torment. Wolf looked on the dark side of everything and she saw only the bright. Perhaps that made them a better team.
They arrived at a small room packed with papers and documents in baskets and boxes, overflowing shelves and tables, stacked on the floor. A staunch woman of around forty was hunting for something in this abundance. She straightened up with a guard dog’s forbidding frown, changing it into yet another cry of joy and a motherly, all-enveloping hug for the bride. When that was over, Wolf was presented. Her name was Belinda Beresford.
“You are indeed a fortunate man, Sir Wolf.”
He made his usual response about being aware of that.
Eventually she gestured to a door in the corner. “You are expected.”
They had arrived at the celebrated Edgewyrd. Dolores’s tribute had suggested something between a poison-fang monster spinning webs in a cellar and a mousy clerk with thick glasses. Yet now she led the way into a shabby little parlor, stuffy and poorly lit, where a tiny woman sat humped before a crackling fire—hairless, wrinkled, skeletal, swathed in a rug and a shawl. She looked likely to crumble into dust at any moment. Dolores dropped to her knees on the hearth rug and very gently clasped one of the spotted and knotted hands.
“Grandmother! They tell me you have not been well.”
The other hand found hers. “I have not been well since before you were born, child.” Her voice was softer than sea mist. “The man I smell must be your husband. Tell him to shut the door. I told them you were wasted on a killer.”
The old crone nodded to the fireplace when Wolf was introduced, but did not offer fingers to be shaken or kissed. She was blind, although evidently not deaf enough to have missed his voice talking to Belinda.
“Be seated,” she whispered. “We have much to do and little time.” She carried on talking almost inaudibly even as he fetched two waiting chairs, putting them as close to the fire as he thought he could bear. “You will be writing to Grand Master to report your dismissal from the Guard, Sir Wolf.”
“Well, no. Leader, that is, Commander Vicious, normally mentions—”
“You will write. You need twenty swords within three weeks.”
Wolf opened and then closed his mouth, noting his wife grinning as if she understood, which he certainly did not.
“Without the jeweled pommel, of course,” the ancient said. “Have them delivered to Cranton in Brimiarde. The gift of tongues—”
“Who? Wait! Why do I need twenty swords? And who is…”
Dolores pinched him hard, shaking her head. One must not interrupt the oracle.
“As samples,” the crone whispered. “Enough to fill a chest and impress. You are a gentleman adventurer taking orders for arms. He is capable of that simple personation?”
“He’ll make a very good gentleman adventurer,” Dolores said loyally, grinning sideways at him.
“Ironhall swords are the world’s best, are they not?”
“Yes they are, but…” Wolf began to explain that cat’s-eye swords were limited to Blades, and even for them were merely a heriot, returnable at death. If the King himself could not give one away to a foreign monarch, how could Wolf persuade Grand Master to break the law in his case? Tell him he was on His Majesty’s service but His Majesty mustn’t know of it?
Ignoring him, Edgewyrd continued mumbling. “…many of the originals have not been translated from the Distlish. Is he a quick study?”
“Not by your standards, mistress.” Wolf wished he had brought a slate to take notes. His wife would have to remember all this for him.
“He’s smarter than the average Blade,” Dolores said loyally, turning pink with the effort of not laughing aloud. She put a finger to her lips.
“I should hope so.” The ghostly whisper continued relentlessly: “I need to hear drafts of your contract and commission by this time tomorrow. Oh, this isn’t going to work, child! Time is so short and you have so much to do. Grand Inquisitor truly put him in charge? Not just as figurehead?”
“They did.” Dolores winked at Wolf.
Edgewyrd grunted angrily. “Then direct him as much as you can. At least make him curb his lusts until the voyage. He’s far too old to learn swift reading, truth-sounding, or eidetic recall, so choose a team with those skills. You are wonderfully talented, but you can’t do it all yourself. See he’s given the basics of brawl and applied conjuration, and of course talks to the bats, so he has some idea what you’re supposed to be doing. Unless he’s exceptionally stupid he may be able to pick up some of the minor adjuncts, like ciphering, narcotizing, sign talk, pocket picking, forging, even personation if he’s deceitful enough. Remember you must all take a course in medicine, because there may be no octograms in Tlixilia. Pack an adequate supply of simples and potions. Make sure he understands the climate and travel hardships before he starts requisitioning gear. The sooner you open negotiations on finance with the bursar the better, but not until you’ve decided how long you will be gone, of course. The Glorious hopes to sail in the middle of Thirdmoon.” She paused to catch her breath.
“Just a moment!” Wolf said. “How many people are we taking with us? How long are we going for? How are we going to travel? How—”
Dolores poked him hard in the ribs.
The dry-leaf voice rustled again. “Blade, I told you! I expect you to tell me all that tomorrow morning.” She sighed. “You do not seriously expect this to work, my dear? I will try again to talk Grand Inquisitor into sending Louis instead. You’d really be much safer without this outsider blundering around, shouting orders about things he doesn’t understand, upsetting people.”
“I have watched Sir Wolf in action and am confident he will do a wonderful job.” Dolores’s tone was firm but her glances at Wolf were begging him not to take offense at the old woman’s spite. He grinned back reassuringly.
When the ordeal ended and they emerged into cooler air and a now-deserted corridor, he pulled her into a corner for a reassuring hug. “So we write our own orders and submit them for approval?”
“Sometimes we bid for missions: several agents submit plans and Grand Inquisitor chooses one.”
“Love, I probably know more about inquisitors than any other Blade does, but I never heard of that! What else have I got to learn?” It was still disconcerting to embrace a woman whose eyes were level with his.
She kissed the remains of his nose. “Lots! I used to discuss this with Sir Intrepid when he coached us in conjuration. Ironhall teaches cooperation, yes? Since you cannot be bound until everyone ahead of you is bound, you try to help the slower ones along, not do them down.”
“That helps the team spirit. Besides, teaching is a good way of learning!”
“In fencing, perhaps. But we’re encouraged from babyhood to compete, so we all become fiercely ambitious. When we’re too young to have achieved anything, we brag about our skills instead. We’re always trying to learn something new, even if it is part of the standard curriculum. Do boys at Ironhall ever boast that they’ve won medals for dancing? Or that they will be Leader one day?”
“Whatever for? Being Leader is just paperwork all night and too much King all day.”
“Different rules, love. Come along, we have to meet with the bats.”
He had already established that the bats were the Dark Chamber’s political analysts, a coven of Masters of Protocol. It was their job to know where all the world’s bones were buried.
As they walked hand-in-hand he said, “Where do I find these new rules?”
“They aren’t written anywhere. We learn them in childhood, like walking. As a helper, you’ll always have some leeway.”
“How often are helpers put in charge of major missions?” Obviously that had been the root of Edgewyrd’s complaint.
“Oh, helpers do all sorts of things.”
“Including being put in charge of trained inquisitors?”
“I think ‘in charge’ is not quite the right expression.” His wife’s eyes twinkled in a way he was learning to distrust. “Inquisitors are rarely given outright orders. Let’s see…I suppose Rule One is Never get caught. If you’re exposed, we never heard of you. And Rule Two would be Tell all. You must report everything you learn up the chain of command as soon as possible. No keeping secrets!” She thought for a moment. “The one that will bother you most is Be right. You can ignore instructions if you think they’re wrong and are willing to gamble on it, even flat-out disobey a direct order. A Blade who did that would be disciplined even if he was right, wouldn’t he? An inquisitor would be promoted.”
“What if he’s wrong?”
“We use him as a model in assassination classes, of course.”
“Reassure me that you’re joking. You’re warning me that I can never trust a subordinate?”
“Think of them as colleagues assisting you in your mission.”
Wolf decided that his would be a very small expedition. “Eidetic recall?”
“Perfect visual memory. Flicker can quote you any book he’s ever read since he was about nine, word perfect, starting at any page and line you ask, chapter after chapter. He can describe people he saw in a street a week ago.”
“And I suppose personation is acting?”
“Oh, much more than that! It means taking on a new identity for months or even years. Living, sleeping, breathing another life, never stepping out of the role.”
Perhaps the old woman he just met had been Flicker in drag? “And what’s narcotizing?”
“Putting yourself to sleep. That’s essential if you have to live on a knife-edge for weeks. Flicker can put himself into a two-day coma.”
A ten-year coma underwater sounded like a better idea for that one.
5
By late afternoon—after another six meetings, each more bewildering than the last—Wolf had a vague idea of what was in store for the future unofficial Chivian ambassador to El Dorado. While climbing a long flight of stairs burdened with three weighty volumes written in Distlish, feeling like a hound who has tried to play catch with a wasps’ nest, he turned to his irrepressibly cheerful wife and said, “Can we go back to bed now?”
She laughed and snuggled closer. “No, but that’s enough work for one day. You’ve done very well, love! You impressed them all, yes, even Edgewyrd! Now it’s playtime. I want you to give me fencing lessons.”
“That I do know something about!”
“Yes, and I warn you, you’ll be mobbed. They’ll all want them.”
“You’ll defend me.”
In a moment he heard the unmistakable echoing sounds of a gym in use. A few steps farther up he could smell it. It had once been the ballroom of one of those Amber Street mansions, but now it was stripped to bare plaster and a floor of scuffed boards, lit by late sunshine peering through high but very grubby windows, furnished with vaulting horses, bars, racks of foils, and full-length mirrors. It was large enough to look almost empty, although it currently held about thirty busy people, six of them adults. Five male adolescents were hopefully swinging dumbbells and others were being coached in fencing, but most of the noise and dust came from a dozen or so children enjoying a semi-controlled riot in a far corner. It was not unlike an Ironhall scene, except that the small fry were too young and almost half the people present were female.
By the time Wolf and Dolores had donned masks and plastrons—for he would take no chances with his bride and knew she would not pad up if he did not—everyone else had gathered around, eager to watch a Blade in action. She turned out to be a much better fencer than he had expected, and she used Ironhall style. He coached her, rapping out encouragement without having to lie at all. By the time the light grew too tricky and he called a halt, the audience had more than doubled.
“I am not the first Blade to teach here,” he said.
“And won’t be the last,” Dolores agreed, puffing.
“I didn’t believe you when you said you could handle anyone else but Blades, love, but I was wrong. I think you could take almost any other man.”
“Not me,” said a familiar voice.
Wolf turned to face the inevitable sneer. “You’re the best, are you?”
Flicker said, “Yes. Want to try me?”
The kiddies buzzed approval like a fanfare of piccolos. Clearly he was the hero of the local immature.
Dolores made an angry noise and tossed him her foil, then her mask. He caught the first and batted the other away. Wolf threw his after it and stripped off his plastron. Then he said, “Guard!” and went for him.
It was soon obvious why the pest was known as Flicker, but he was not a Blade, and Wolf gave him a few bruises as reminders to watch his manners.
“Very good, though,” he said at the end. “Certainly anyone but a Blade would have to be very lucky to take you, Inquisitor.” He turned away to look for his wife.
“How are you at brawl?” Flicker asked.
The hall fell silent.
“I’m not familiar with the term,” Wolf said cautiously. Anyone who would trust an inquisitor in that situation at that moment would have to be stark crazy.
Looking ominously content, Flicker tossed his foil to a girl nearby. “First, Sir Wolf, can you do this?”
He shot off across the gym like an arrow, slapped his hands down on a vaulting horse, spun up in a handstand, twisted in midair and then, instead of completing the loop to land on his feet, hit the floor spread-eagle, with a crash that made Wolf wince. He started to laugh and was silenced by wild cheers from the audience. Flicker sprang to his feet and came trotting back, grinning and acknowledging the applause. Clearly that had been an exceptional performance, even for him
“I rarely find a need for that skill,” Wolf said, puzzled.
The smile grew wider, hungrier. “Then we’ll go over to the polliwog corner and the mats. Bring your foil, Blade.”
Having no choice now, Wolf followed him, with the spectators trailing behind or running ahead. He was not seriously worried. Fast or not, there was no way bare hands could beat a rapier. He wondered why Dolores seemed so concerned.
They stepped onto the mats and Flicker turned, dropping into a half crouch. “You have a blade, Blade,” he said. “Kill me.”
Wolf used Cockroach—a suckering feint at sixte and lunge at quarte. Flicker slapped the foil aside and kicked, tapping the top of Wolf’s thigh with his foot to demonstrate what he could have done. In a real fight he would not have gotten inside Diligence’s guard like that and would have been disemboweled by Wolf’s dagger if he had, but there was no denying he had won the make-believe bout and the smaller kids all screamed in joy.
“Try not to vomit all over the rug, Sir Wolf.” Flicker himself was fizzing with excitement.
Wolf had seen bloodlust before and taken advantage of it. “I apologize for underestimating you. You knew that one, didn’t you? Try another?”
“Kill me.”
For a few moments Flicker circled around while Wolf held his ground, waiting for him to make a move. That was cheating a little, in that the man with the sword was supposed to attack; it would look like cowardice very shortly. Wolf was forced to keep shifting his feet, and Flicker chose his moment to leap within range. Wolf countered with a straight no-nonsense lunge that should have cracked his breastbone. It failed to connect, the foil was jerked forward, and Wolf went over Flicker’s knee, impacting the mat hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Flicker fell hard on top of him, sliding an arm under his to grasp the back of his neck. Wolf discovered he was helpless.
“You lost again, Sir Wolf,” Flicker whispered.
“So I did.”
Flicker chuckled and released him.
Wolf climbed to his feet and shook his head when offered his foil back. “What are the rules in brawl?”
The fuzz-faced pipsqueak was already back in his menacing stoop, hands waving slightly, as dangerous as a spanned crossbow. “Rules?”
“Don’t injure your friends in practice matches is one!” Dolores’s shout carried a strong implication that Flicker had a weakness that way.
“Don’t injure friends,” Flicker agreed, eyeing Wolf like his next meal.
Wolf was now mad—not about to froth at the mouth or charge in all directions like a mad bull, but too mad to pick up whatever shreds of dignity he had left and go while the going was good. He had been made a fool of in front of an audience that included his one-day bride and this was intolerable.
“And what decides the bout?” He spat on his hands.
“Results.”
“Show me, then.” Wolf raised his fists.
Both Flicker’s feet hit him in the chest and down he went again, this time harder. Those meager mats might save a ten-year-old from bruising, but he weighed much more and lacked Flicker’s superlative skill in falling. Flicker caught his foot and twisted it hard enough to hurt.
“Broken ankle, Blade. You’re not doing very well, are you?”
In the next bout Wolf nearly landed a punch, except that Flicker threw him clean over his shoulder, to the worst landing yet. He tweaked Wolf’s nose. “Gouged eye, Blade.”
And the fourth time he pinned Wolf with both hands on the back of his neck.
“If I push just a little harder,” said an odious whisper in his ear, “your spine will snap, Sir Wolf. They won’t get you to the octogram in time, Sir Wolf.”
Barely able to breathe for the pain, Wolf just grunted.
Flicker did not accept that as surrender. The junior members of the audience were making so much noise screaming with mirth that he could ignore their elders’ disapproving shouts. “Then they’ll send me to Tlixilia with Dolores after all.”
“Try it and see,” Wolf mumbled.
Flicker released him and he collapsed with a gasp of relief. In a moment he managed to sit up. Flicker was squatting just out of range, eyes burning.
“More, Sir Wolf?”